


North by Northwest Conspiracy

by detectivejigsaw



Series: Flipside AU [8]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: "Irrational Treasure" references, Gen, Humor, Investigating Northwest Conspiracy, Original Mystery Twins, Some artistic license vis-a-vis Journal 3, Sort-of treasure hunt, duh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:14:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivejigsaw/pseuds/detectivejigsaw
Summary: Ford discovers proof that Nathaniel Northwest might not be the actual founder of Gravity Falls.
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines & Dan Corduroy
Series: Flipside AU [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587223
Comments: 113
Kudos: 178





	1. Stan Pines, master of connecting the dots.  Or lines.  Whatever.

_Hundreds upon hundreds of indistinct whispers surrounding him in a world of darkness, circling and circling, coming in close and then moving farther away in irregular patterns, echoing so he could only make out bits and pieces._

_“Sabotaged my-”_

_“Not welcome-”_

_“Tell us where you-”_

_“Hey, handsome-”_

_“WHY DO YOU HAVE TO TAKE AWAY-”_

**Beep, beep, beep!**

Stan’s eyes flew open, and after a disoriented moment he rolled over to switch off the alarm clock.

He sat up with a groan, running his hand through his hair.

Ugh, he was still exhausted for some reason, even though he was pretty sure he’d gone to bed at kind of a reasonable hour. Maybe it was just that some of his nightmares had started coming back.

Stan wondered again if he should mention them to Ford, see if there was some kind of supernatural reason.

...Except that with all the crap he’d gone through since he was a teenager, he thought he’d be more worried if he _wasn’t_ having nightmares about it. And it wasn’t like they were a nightly occurrence-just a common one. And they were probably just dreams. He could deal with them.

* * *

Ford had made French toast for breakfast today, Stan noticed when he came downstairs. He raised an eyebrow at it as he sat down.

“What’s the occasion?”

Ford looked up from his pile of papers, eyes bright behind his glasses.

“A possible break in my research!” And he thrust forward a large piece of old-looking paper covered in incomprehensible scribbles.

Stan stuffed some toast into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “...What am I looking at here?”

“I think it’s the answer I’ve been searching for about who the true founder of Gravity Falls is!” Ford sounded so excited that Stan felt obligated to peer into his eyes and make sure he hadn’t overshot his caffeine content level again (the last time that happened he’d created a photocopier that could duplicate people, leading to what Stan referred to as the “close encounters of the nerd kind” incident; since then, Stan had started hiding the coffee after a certain time of day).

They were, yes, somewhat manic looking, but not yet bloodshot enough for concern, so he looked back at the paper. It looked like a lot of gobbledygook to him, but if Ford said so...

“How’d you find this?”

“It was hidden in the library archives, in an old journal written by an unnamed person on why pancakes should be outlawed in America.”

_Okay, random, but I’ll take it._

“...And how do you know it’s about the founder of Gravity Falls?”

“The journal contained several allusions to discovering this town and writing laws for it. But I compared the handwriting to one of Nathaniel Northwest’s journals, and it’s completely different! Partly because it’s much less legible. So whoever wrote that, and put this in there-” he held up the parchment- “must be the actual founder!”

Stan nodded thoughtfully. “Cool. So what’s all that stuff-” he indicated the symbols- “mean?”

Ford’s wide smile faded. “... I haven’t figured that out yet. I was planning on going to the library and studying it later today. It’s not in any languages I’m familiar with... This symbol here-” he pointed to one that looked like a triangle- “could be the alchemical symbol for fire...maybe if I lit a fire behind it a secret message of some kind would show up in invisible ink…”

And then Stan was only half listening, because he noticed something weird about the lines on the paper. If you folded it up in a certain way, maybe like this, it seemed like they would connect to each other…

“Stanley! What are you-” Ford tried to stop him, but Stan pushed him off and finished his folding. When he pulled back, Ford realized what he was doing too, and his jaw dropped.

“It’s a map!”

* * *

The twins stared at it in equal surprise for a moment; then Stan said with a laugh, “Heh, it also kinda looks like a hat.” He picked the folded paper up, and set it on top of Ford’s head. “Your crown, King Nerd!”

“Stanley, stop it!” Ford protested with a laugh of his own, pulling it off. Then he looked down at the newly-discovered map, and that wide grin was back. “Wanna help me uncover a major conspiracy today?”

“Hmmm.” Stan leaned his chin on his hand in pretend thoughtfulness. “Do somethin’ potentially illegal that involves digging into the private lives o’ one of the most influential families of Gravity Falls and that might end with making them a total laughingstock? I dunno, that sounds kind of AWESOME, LET’S DO IT!”

They high-sixed, and headed for the car.


	2. Is it a maze? Is it a map? These are legitimate questions

Ever since he’d first arrived in Gravity Falls, Ford had had problems with the Northwest family. Granted, they had been the ones to sell him the land his house was currently built on, but he suspected there was something wrong with it since they’d given it to him at such a semi-reasonable price. He also had found the occasional evidence that behind their wealth and misplaced sense of superiority there lurked a series of shady deals, broken promises and sabotaged weathervanes. Plus the obnoxious scion of the family, a boy named Preston, had made fun of his hands on the rare occasions where they’d come into contact with each other.

It was payback time.

According to the map, the first place they needed to go was the Gravity Falls history museum. When they got there, Stan suggested just finding a window they could sneak in through, but Ford gave him a scolding look.

“We can afford to buy tickets, Stanley.” He shut his door, and then mused, “If we’d come here on Pioneer Day, we could have gotten free passes, though.”

Stan shuddered at the idea of Pioneer Day as he got out. “It wouldn’t be worth it.”

Ford gave him a stare of exaggerated shock. “I never thought I’d live to see the day where you’d think something wasn’t worth a chance not to spend money.”

Stan just punched him in the shoulder as he started up the steps.

* * *

Ford paid the admission fee, while Stan grumbled about the “exorbitant” price (five dollars per person-clearly the folks in charge hadn’t learned about inflation yet), and then they followed the map-hat to the next clue: a big white abstract blob hanging on the wall.

Stan stared at it, nonplussed and a tad disappointed. “Not what I was expecting.”

Ford tilted his head thoughtfully, chewing on a pen. Then his eyes brightened. “Maybe it’s supposed to be a maze!” He pointed to the way some of the swirls ran together and around each other. “And the next clue is somewhere at the center!”

“Where’s it at, though?” Stan asked. “I haven’t seen anywhere that looks like that in town.”

“Well...maybe it’s a geologic map of the town. The different ridges and stuff could be indications of sea level-” he stepped back a few feet and squinted- “and the bigger edges could be the mountains around here...maybe that’s why it looks so strange…”

“Or maybe something’s hidden behind it?” Stan suggested.

Ford stopped, expression sheepish. “I suppose it could also be that.”

“One way ta find out.” And Stan stepped up and began trying to lift the sculpture off the wall.

“Stanley! You can’t do that!”

Ford tried to pull Stan away, which only succeeded in getting the sculpture further unhooked. Unfortunately, it was a lot heavier than they’d been expecting, so a few seconds later they were both staggering under the weight, trying desperately to keep it from falling to the floor.

They skidded back and forth, feeling the heavy art tilting farther and farther despite their best efforts.

Horrifying mental images of it smashing into pieces, and being locked in the county jail for vandalism/wanton destruction of government property/whatever other crimes they might be committing at the moment flashed before Ford’s eyes. But then, apparently motivated by last-second panic, a solution sprang to him.

He steered them quickly to the right, allowing the sculpture to land with a  _ thud _ , but not the blood-chilling  _ crunch _ and shattering into rubble he’d been dreading, on the bench behind them.

For a moment the twins just stood there, panting and leaning down with their hands on their knees, feeling the adrenaline leave them. And then Stan looked over at the sculpture, and blinked.

“Hey, look.”

Ford was about to start scolding him for his recklessness again, but curiosity compelled him to look-and he realized that what he’d thought was a weird map was actually an upside-down picture of a pointing angel.

“...We can’t be the first people ta notice this, right?” Stan asked. “Cuz it’s kinda obvious now.”

“Maybe nobody else has looked at it from another angle before.” Ford looked back at the wall. There did not appear to be any new secret messages there, but there was a flashing light. The kind indicating that a silent alarm has been triggered.

“Crap.”

Fortunately, Stan was able to jimmy open a nearby window, and they scrambled out before security showed up.

“I think I’ve seen that statue in the cemetery,” Stan said as they began sneaking back to their car. “That’s probably where we need ta go next.”

“Next for what?”

Both men jumped at the unexpected voice, and yelped as a pair of pinecones bounced off their heads.

They looked up, rubbing the sore spots on their skulls, to see Dan grinning at them from where he was sitting at the top of a tree growing next to the museum. The lumberjack swung down, dangling from a branch by one arm for a moment before letting himself drop to the sidewalk.

“We’re investigating some clues Ford found indicating that the Northwest loser might not be the guy who actually founded this place. Wanna come?”

Dan’s expression went blank for a second...before his mouth stretched into a wide, evil grin.

“Count me in.”

* * *

From behind one of the owl-crested pillars on either side of the museum, an obnoxious, meticulously dressed twelve-year-old boy, with a fox wearing a collar and leash at his side, gasped and stared after the bright red car that was driving away towards the cemetery.

Had they really just said-?

A glare settled on Preston Northwest’s slightly-chubby face. He didn’t know what those freaks had heard, but they were messing with the wrong family!

His knee-jerk response was to go find his father and tell him what he’d heard...but he stopped and considered the option more thoroughly.

His father might be impressed if Preston managed to track down and silence those men all by himself. He’d made it clear to him on multiple occasions that their family’s honor and name were everything, never to be besmirched, and that he expected Preston to protect them by any means necessary. Surely if he took the initiative here and handled the problem on his own, instead of running to Papa like a baby, he would be pleased?

“Come, Hunter,” he said to the fox, towing him back down the steps and heading for the seedy biker bar that he knew was nearby, “we have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And now I've actually humanized Preston Northwest a tiny bit. What is this world coming to? Next thing you know I'll be humanizing Filbrick (gag, gag).  
> Sorry, I just threw up in my mouth.


	3. Pygmalion had the right idea after all

“Ugh, this place gives me the creeps,” Dan said as they entered the cemetery.

Stan couldn’t believe his ears. “...Of all the creepy places in Gravity Falls,  _ this _ is the one that bugs you?”

“It’s the statues, okay? It feels like they’re gonna move when I’m not looking.”

“Well, I do have a few theories about some of the ones here; during certain phases of the moon-” Ford started to open his journal to a certain spot.

“Agh, shut up!” Dan slapped his hands over his ears.

The twins both laughed. The lumberjack glared at them.

“You guys are so much worse when you work together.”

Sure enough, they soon found the statue of the pointing angel, next to an old tree.

The three men looked at it thoughtfully.

“Maybe it’s pointing to the next clue?” Dan suggested, looking in the direction of the hand.

Ford shook his head. “That does seem like the obvious answer... but all the clues we’ve followed so far have been the opposite of what we expected.” He tapped his pen against his notebook.

Stan snickered. “Maybe we’re supposed to pull her finger.”

The other two rolled their eyes (though Dan did laugh a little). “Real mature, Stanley.”

“Yeah, well, the guy who left all those clues wasn’t exactly mature, was he?” He climbed up onto the statue’s plinth, and walked around the angel, looking for a lever or piece of paper in a hidden crevice or something. “Makin’ the paper so you’d haveta fold it up into a map, hanging the sculpture upside-down…” Then, with a mischievous smile, he suddenly leaned his elbow on the statue’s outstretched arm and waggled his eyebrows at her. “Hey, hot stuff, wanna tell us where the next clue is? I could make it worth your while.” He ran his fingers up her arm in a pretend flirtatious motion. 

Don’t look at him like that, she was pretty cute for someone made of granite or whatever that stuff was.

Ford and Dan both made faces of disgust.

“Stan, stop pretending to flirt with the statue!”

“Tuh, sometimes you are no fun at all, Poindexter.” Capriciously, Stan pulled on the tip of her pointing finger. And to his surprise, he felt it move under his hand!

As he lifted it upwards, there was a rumbling, and then another block of stone on the ground, which was decorated with a symbol that looked a little like a triangle (even after this long, seeing anything that looked like that gave Stan an uncomfortable feeling in his gut) moved, revealing a flight of underground stairs.

Unfortunately, the heels of Dan’s boots had been on the edge of the stone, so he fell back with a surprised yell and an uncomfortable-sounding thud.

“Dan!” Stan jumped off the plinth, and he and Ford rushed to the top of the stairs.

“...I’m okay,” they heard the lumberjack groan. “Nothing-ow-a real man can’t handle.”

Ford dug out his pocket flashlight and switched it on, revealing Dan slowly gathering himself up in the middle of the steps and rubbing the back of his head. To his relief, their friend didn’t appear to be bleeding at all, but Stan would bet anything he was gonna have a heck of a set of bruises. He knew from experience that falling down a flight of stairs tended to make that happen.

“You didn’t black out or anything, right?” Ford called down to him. “That would mean you might have a concussion.”

Dan glared. “The Corduroy skull is too thick for concussions!”

The other two gave him singularly unimpressed stares until he growled and admitted, “No, I didn’t black out. I’m fine.”

“Good.” They were just starting down the steps, when a squeaky, prepubescent voice called, “Stop right there!”

* * *

Stan whirled around, and saw a snotty-looking kid in a light gray suit standing behind them. On either side of him were two unusually hulking young men, either teenagers or just barely young adults, who looked like they might actually be a match for Dan, if things got physical. One of them was a big black kid who seemed to have practically no neck and a piercing through his nose; Stan couldn’t help thinking that he looked a little like a bull. The other was just as bulky, but he was white-skinned, and his eyes were kind of creepy-looking: pale white, with no visible pupils. Something about him just screamed “future criminal.”

“Stanley and Stanford Pines, you are making a terrible mistake! I suggest that you stop now, before-”

“Uh, who the heck are you?” Stan interrupted.

The boy’s face reddened with indignation.

“That’s Preston Northwest,” Ford whispered.

“Oh. Shoulda guessed.”

Preston glared at them, and marched forward, with the evidently hired muscle flanking him. “This is your last warning, Pines! My family’s honor is not going to be besmirched by the likes of you if I have anything to say about-”

Stan couldn’t keep from laughing any longer. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just hard ta pay attention ta what you’re sayin’ with that squeaky puberty voice ya got goin’ on there.”

“Stanley…” Ford hissed in a warning whisper.

“What? It’s-” Stan made his voice waver up and down loudly, “hila-a-a-a-rious!”

Preston snapped his fingers, and gestured to his hench-teenagers.

“Oh.”

Stan decided maybe now was a good time to run down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...The statue part's only weird if you make it weird, guys. Stan was just playing around.


	4. Stan unfortunately doesn't get to have a duel

“I know those guys from high school!” Dan panted as they raced into the tunnel. “The one on the right, Ghost Eyes-”

“His name is Ghost Eyes?” Ford couldn’t help asking in disbelief.

“That’s what everyone calls him-he was in my English class-liked readin’ weird stuff like Immanuel Kant-”

“Watch out!” Ford barely managed to catch Stan before his foot could land on a rock with a triangle shape cut into it (ugh, were those _ever_ going to stop reminding him of Bill?). “That could be a booby trap!”

“Ssh, not so loud! Maybe one of those jerks’ll step on it instead!”

Behind them came the loud clomp of pursuing boots; the three men only increased their pace, running towards the end of the tunnel, which dipped downwards in a way that looked kind of like a slide.

“Guys, go!” Dan demanded, skidding to a halt at this new entrance and turning, fists clenched. “I’ll hold them off!”

“But-hey!” Stan started to object, but then Dan shoved him into the tunnel, followed quickly by Ford.

A disorienting moment later, and they were spat out into an enormous thick cobweb, and then a dark cavern.

Stan jumped to his feet, scrubbing at his face and spitting.

“Ugh, that was in my mouth!”

Ford pulled himself up, grimacing at the fresh bruises he could tell were developing.

From above, they heard grunting and the thuds of fists hitting flesh.

“Think he can take ‘em?” Stan asked.

“If it were anyone else I’d be more worried, but...well.” Having seen the strength of Dan’s fists, Ford was reasonably confident in his ability to defend himself.

Stan didn’t look appeased. “Let’s just find whatever it is we’re lookin’ for and get outta here before-whoa.”

Ford turned, and saw what his brother was seeing; his mouth opened in awe, and his eyes became starry.

This cavern was filled with a treasure trove of historical artifacts. Old weapons, a telescope, piles of papers and files, even an American flag from the Betsy Ross era.

“Where’d all this stuff come from?” he wondered aloud. “Who brought it here?”

Stan shrugged. “Search me.” And he began rifling through it.

“We should grab as much as we can; knowing that kid, he’ll probably try to either take it all back to his mansion or burn it.”

“Stanford, we don’t have time!”

Ford bristled, even as he grabbed a file that looked like it had information about the Founding Fathers inside and began stuffing it under his shirt. “This could be of great historical importance!”

“Our _lives_ are of great-um, _biological_ importance!” But Stan did pick up a large cavalry sword and hoist it onto his shoulder-even odds as to whether it was as a grudging concession to Ford’s wishes, or so he could threaten Preston with it.

There was a loud crash from above, and the ceiling rumbled. Stan looked at it uneasily.

“Come on, Dan…”

Ford finally saw what he was looking for. “Look!” He snatched up a file sitting on a small dais. “Northwest Cover-up! This is it!”

“Don’t start reading it here!” Stan scolded. “We haveta find an exit!”

Then he rounded a corner-and let out a startled yell.

“Hot Belgian waffles!”

* * *

Ford rushed over to see what the fuss was about, and was a little startled himself at the sight before him.

It was an enormous, amber-colored transparent rectangle, with a man preserved inside. And I don’t mean preserved the way mummies are preserved, with the skin all stretched on their bones and empty eye sockets and stuff-this man didn’t even look dead. He was on the tall, slender side, wearing an old-fashioned suit, and with an old-fashioned haircut and mustache to match. Disturbingly, his eyes were wide open, staring blankly at them. 

“I was genuinely not expecting this,” Ford admitted, wondering who this man was and why someone had decided to leave him down here, preserved in this block of...he sniffed at the rectangle in confusion. “Is that...peanuts?”

“I think it’s peanut brittle.” Stan reached out and broke off a tiny piece; he put it in his mouth and grimaced. “Very _old_ peanut brittle.”

“Stanley, spit that out! It’s probably been down here for at _least_ a hundred years!” Unless, of course, the man was just wearing a costume or something, but Ford had a hunch that it was more Gravity Falls anomaly stuff at work; his “weirdness sense,” as Stan called it, was tingling.

“Ugh!” Stan spat out the peanut brittle. “No wonder it tastes the way your breath smells in the morning!”

“It does not-!”

They were interrupted by the sound of slow, deliberate clapping from behind them.

Preston smirked at them, continuing to clap sarcastically as he stepped closer. To Ford’s confusion he could still hear the sounds of fighting from the upper tunnel, but he concluded that the boy must have sneaked around the older men to come find them.

Stan brandished the sword threateningly. “Back off, squirt-I’m armed!”

Preston sneered. “Oh, _please_. You’d be no match for me in a duel; I’ve been taking fencing lessons since I was four.”

“...So last year?” Stan looked unimpressed.

Preston bristled again. “I’m _twelve_!” His voice gave off a very impressive crack that made Stan snicker again. “And that’s not the point, because you are going to go back home and forget you saw all this-this-whatever this stuff is!”

“Why, because you’ll beat us up if we don’t?” Stan leaned on the sword.

The boy gave him a glare that only managed to be half as imperious as he probably thought it was. “Otherwise I’m sure your brother would _love_ to know some sordid details about your past, Stan Pines!”

“My father has done some extensive investigation into you two, ever since you came here and started disrupting the peaceful lifestyle of this town!” Preston went on, wearing that triumphant smirk again. “I suppose you’d love to know what your brother was up to for the last five years, wouldn’t you, Stanford?”

“...You mean all the numerous criminal offenses? Yeah, I already know. He told me.”

It was so worth it to see the smirk wiped off his round little face. After a second he rallied. “Well-did you know that he’s been to _prison_?!”

“Yeah, for theft, smuggling, and first-degree llama-cide.” Ford shrugged. “It happens.”

Stan’s expression, which had been somewhat alarmed when the brat started with his blackmail spiel, relaxed into smugness (and slight relief).

Preston stuttered a little, clearly adrift now that his apparent weapon against them had turned out to be a no-sell.

“Besides, you hardly have a right to be making moral judgments on my family, considering the level of criminal history behind that ridiculous facade of superiority your family puts up. You should be ashamed of yourselves! Those weather vanes-”

Unfortunately, Ford was unable to continue with his rant; there was a loud crumbling noise from behind them, and he turned just in time to see the block of peanut brittle start to crack...and rumble...and suddenly it fell apart!

To all their astonishment, the man inside blinked, yelled in a reedy voice, “It is I, Quentin Trembley!” and then ripped his pants off, revealing a pair of light-colored drawers underneath.

“Ugh!” Stan’s hand flew up over his eyes. “Is there a way to erase your memory of the last three seconds?”

“Unfortunately,” Ford said with a grimace as his own hand covered his eyes, “no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knowing Stan, if it had come down to a sword fight he probably would have just hit Preston over the head with his sword or something. But not too hard, since he's still just a kid.


	5. The man with the magic key (and possibly a few loose screws)

_ Please, if there’s any superior being out there with any level of mercy,  _ please _ don’t let this weirdo be about ta do some kind of striptease. _

To Stan’s relief, he seemed content to remain in the rest of his clothes-and honestly, he could relate to wanting to walk around in just your shorts, sometimes wearing pants was too much effort.

“...Quentin Trembley?” Ford asked, looking perplexed.

“The eighth-and-a-half president of these several United States, my good man!” Trembley grinned at his twin and walked over to him, holding out his hand. “Do they still shake hands in this time period? What year is it?”

“Uh...it’s 1978. And yes they do.” Ford gingerly returned the handshake. When he pulled his hand back, he looked at his fingers and grimaced, discreetly wiping them on his pants; Stan guessed that being encased in peanut brittle for a hundred years made you a little sticky. He was learning that it also did pretty weird things to the way you smelled.

“We’ve passed the year 1900?! By Jefferson, this is amazing! My horoscope told me the world might end in 1899-I guess it was wrong.”

“No duh,” Stan muttered.

“Eighth-and-a- _ half _ ?” Preston gave a very bewildered frown.

“Aah!” Trembley let out an alarmed yelp and hid behind Ford. “A small evil accountant! Protect me before he tries to calculate my income!”

“That’s a child, Mr. Trembley.” Ford stepped away from him.

Trembley gave him an indignant look. “That’s Sir Lord Quentin Trembley III,  _ Esquire _ to you, sir! Former president of AMERICA, and founder of the town of Gravity Falls!”

For a moment they just stared at him, before Preston broke the silence.

“That’s a lie!” he squawked. “My great-grandfather Nathaniel Northwest founded Gravity Falls!”

“No, he’s telling the truth!” Ford held up the file on the Northwest Cover-up, which had remained clutched in his hand, and which he had just opened. “It says in here that he was the actual founder, and that Nathaniel Northwest was-” the group was graced by the unexpected sight of Stan’s normally somewhat dignified older twin snorting, and looking like he was seconds away from bursting into deep belly-laughter- “a-a waste-shoveling village idiot who-choked to death trying to eat an oak tree so he’d turn into a wizard!”

At that he and Stan both burst into loud guffaws. That whole sentence was just too funny for them not to.

“It does not!” Preston ran forward and snatched the file, glaring at it. As he read it, though, his glare changed to shock.

“No, that-that can’t be-this has gotta be fake!”

Ford snatched the file back. “Then why would anyone bother hiding it down here? Deal with it, Northwest-your whole family legacy is a lie, and the newspapers are going to  _ love _ this! Even though we’re going to have a hard time explaining how Sir Quentin-”

He looked around in confusion. “Where did he go?”

Stan peered around the corner, and saw the apparent former president standing by one of the cave walls, attempting to stick a key into it.

_...This explains a lot about why the laws here are so weird. Ford’s gonna have a field day tryna decide on if this town is weird because this guy was the founder of it, or if he was the founder of it because the land attracts weirdness. _

_...Or somethin’ like that. _

He walked over to Trembley. “Whatcha doin’, slick?” he asked, resting the sword on his shoulder again.

“Trying to make my way out to see how the world has changed since I encased myself in my delicious tomb!” Trembley announced. “This is the President’s Key, which can open any lock in America! I don’t see why it’s not working!”

“...How about you just go up through that tunnel?” Stan indicated the way they’d come.

_ Any lock in America, huh? _ A million greedy possibilities flashed through Stan’s mind. He wondered if there was any way he could get the former president to lend the key to him for a few weeks.

“Also good.” Trembley stuffed it back into his pocket, and marched towards the tunnel. As he did, Ford and a visibly shell-shocked Preston rounded the corner and followed them out.

They emerged in time to see a triumphant-yet-exhausted-looking Dan deal a final blow to Ghost Eyes’s jaw, sending him to the floor next to the already-unconscious black guy. He grinned proudly, spitting out a small mouthful of blood.

“And you can  _ shove _ your theories on mankind being naturally evil!” he told the incumbent figure. Then he noticed the group climbing up the tunnel. “Oh, hi guys. Who’s that?”

“The real founder of Gravity Falls, who kept himself alive for over a hundred years in a block of peanut brittle,” Stan said, somehow keeping a straight face.

Dan’s expression was priceless.

Trembley stared at the big lumberjack in astonishment. “Incredible-he’s more than sixteen stacking-turtles high and at least bleventeen Tremble-quarts in diameter! The future has giants in it!”

Ford leaned over to Stan. “Between you and me, I’m beginning to see why he’s not in the history books. Mr. Northwest was repulsive, but he seems to have been at least a little more mentally stable.”

“Uh, between the one who died trying to eat a tree, and the one who tried ta freeze himself in peanut brittle, which one actually survived?”

“...Good point. But you still see what I mean, right?”

“AMERICA!” Trembley yelled. Stan noticed that he seemed to do that every three minutes or so, for no apparent reason.

“Yeah, I see it.”

* * *

“...And then Andrew tried to shoot me again, leading me to believe that maybe he  _ wasn’t _ going to let me stay with him after I was thrown out of office, so instead I came here and discovered this quaint little valley. After my horse crashed into it. Fortunately a giant bull-man broke our fall...”

Trembley had decided to tell them his life story as they picked their way back through the cemetery to their car (Dan was dragging Ghost Eyes and the black guy, who both needed to go to the hospital). A lot of it was gibberish, but from the bits he could understand, Stan learned that his term in office had been a major embarrassment to the country, and to Gravity Falls, so both had tried to forget he’d ever existed. And for some reason, that kind of struck a nerve with him, that someone would throw you out and then try to erase you from the world’s memory just because you had some quirks and made a few dumb mistakes-

No. No, he was  _ not _ going to project himself on a hundred-year-old guy who tried to get in fights with eagles. Absolutely not.

Stan rolled his eyes at himself, and looked down at Preston, who was following them, still looking a little like his entire worldview had been shattered and not seeming to care that his expensive-looking shoes were getting covered in dirt and mud.

Stan could almost feel sorry for him if he weren’t such an obnoxious little snot.

And then Preston looked up as they approached the gates of the cemetery, and his eyes widened and he let out a tiny gasp.

“Father!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In some ways, Sir Quentin Trembley is relatively easy to write. You just put together a bunch of nonsense phrases and don't worry too much about whether he makes an iota of sense.


	6. Screw the truth, the Northwests have money!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An optional chapter title is, "Filthy lucre can make you filthy rich."

The Northwest patriarch was the spitting image of his grandfather, except that instead of a beard he had a neatly clipped mustache and a pair of enormously bushy eyebrows. Every time he looked at them, Ford was hard-pressed not to see them as giant caterpillars crawling on his forehead. Just like his son, he was wearing a tailor-made suit, with a dark green necktie and a blue pin that closer examination made him suspect was actually a full-fledged diamond. He was standing in front of a sleek black car, arms folded in blatant disapproval.

“Preston, what have I told you about consorting with riffraff?” he demanded as the group approached.

“I wasn’t consorting with them! I overheard-”

“It looks very much like consorting to me.” The caterpillars mashed themselves together.

“But-”

And then out of the blue a bell appeared in his hand; the sound of it ringing instantly silenced the boy, who sullenly padded through the gates to stand at his father’s side. It made something uncomfortable twist in Ford’s gut.

“That’s better.” Mr. Northwest turned to the rest of them: Stan, Ford, Dan, the unconscious hoodlums, and Sir Quentin, who was for some reason trying to climb up the side of a tall gravestone that had some stone birds on top. His bright eyes narrowed as he looked at the Pineses.

“I know you, Stanford, but I haven’t had the...pleasure of meeting your twin.”

“Stan Pines.” Stan readjusted his grip on his new sword, and made no attempt at offering to shake hands.

Mr. Northwest rolled with it, giving him a slight nod that was the facade of politeness. “Auldman Northwest.”

Stan blinked. “You call yourself Old Man?”

It was Mr. Northwest’s turn to blink. “No, that’s my name. Auldman.”

“...Your parents literally named you Old Man? I mean, I guess that’s an optimistic view of your life expectancy, but-”

“It’s  _ Auldman _ ! You’re not pronouncing it right!” The irritation in the old man’s voice (great, now that Stan had pointed the similarity out Ford couldn’t unhear it) was immensely satisfying. And Ford would have continued to think that Stan was making the mistake in all innocence if he hadn’t seen the mischievous twitch that kept rising to his brother’s lips. As entertaining as it was, however, he didn’t want to push it.

“...Can we help you with something?” Ford asked, subtly elbowing Stan in the ribs as a hint to knock it off.

Mr. Northwest recomposed himself with a sniff. “I came looking for my son.” He gave Preston a disapproving frown. “You left that fox of yours unattended again, and he got in a fight with a few alley cats and destroyed some merchandise at the market. Remember, if you can’t control him, you can’t keep him.”

“Yes, Father,” Preston murmured. Then, head jerking back up, he said all in a rush, “But I had a good reason! They found out that that man is the-the real founder of Gravity Falls!” He pointed to Sir Quentin (who had finally reached the top of the gravestone, and was staring off into the distance with one hand shading his eyes, in a pose that on some people might have looked somewhat distinguished).

Mr. Northwest’s eyebrow rose. “...You mean the one who’s not wearing pants?”

“Yeah, he-” Preston visibly realized that telling his old man he’d kept himself alive inside a block of peanut brittle for a hundred years would not help his case, and said quickly, “It’s complicated, but they said they were gonna tell the newspapers about Great-Grandfather not being the founder-” his voice quivered for a moment- “so I hired some bodyguards to help me stop them!”

One of the aforesaid bodyguards, the one called Ghost Eyes, groaned and stirred a little; Dan subtly put his boot on top of his kneecap until he was still again.

Mr. Northwest went stock still for a moment, but at last made an exasperated sound and straightened. “Clearly, Preston, you’ve forgotten  _ everything _ I’ve taught you about dealing with problems like this.” He stepped through the gates, and with a motion he must have performed hundreds of times he whipped out a checkbook, scribbled in it for a moment, and pressed a check into Ford’s hand with a bored sigh. “This should cover any desire the three of you might have to spread such silly rumors.”

* * *

Ford spluttered with rage; Dan made a similar sound, and if he’d had an axe in his hand Ford wouldn’t have bet two cents on the Northwest’s patriarch’s life expectancy lasting much longer.

“You-you think that you can just bribe us into supporting your lies?!” Ford demanded. “There’s not enough money in the  _ world _ for us to-”

Stan tilted his head until he could see the figure scrawled on the check-and let out a startled whistle. “Wow.”

Despite his fury, Ford couldn’t help glancing down at it. And when he saw what they were being offered, he couldn’t help being a little in awe himself. It was a sum that would definitely have come in handy while he was in college, and even moreso when he was growing up, and here it was being offered to them on a silver platter.

But his awe only lasted for a moment; he gave Mr. Northwest a contemptuous stare. “You must be very insecure about your family’s status if you’re willing to throw money around like this.”

The old man looked a little taken aback...before his brows settled together again in a glare. “This town needs someone they can look up to with respect. Otherwise they would have absolutely  _ nothing _ to be proud of.”

Dan growled again, and Ford could tell that it was all he could do to reign in his temper. Mr. Northwest just gave him an impassive stare, and turned back to Ford. “We have a reputation to uphold, and I will prevent you from spoiling that with either a carrot, like this…” his tone frosted over, “...or a stick. It’s your choice, young man.”

Ford turned to his companions for backup-and saw a small degree of hesitancy in Stan’s eyes.

For a moment he was angry that his own twin could actually be considering  _ accepting _ such an offer-but then he put some rapid-fire thought into why he would.

On the one hand, it was dirty money from a pretentious, crooked old man who it appeared was just as horrible of a father as Filbrick Pines.

On the other hand, it was  _ money _ . A really, really large sum of money. To someone who’d been homeless for five years and spent most of that time trying to  _ make _ money, that had to be extremely tempting, especially when it required so little in return.

Turning his back on the Northwests, Ford lightly touched his brother’s arm. “We don’t need it, Stanley.”

Stan’s eyes met his, and after another hesitant moment, he gave a decisive nod. He snatched the check from Ford’s hand...and sank his teeth into it, ripping the paper in half.

“This is quality stuff,” he said with his mouth full, looking over at Mr. Northwest. “You’ve got good paper, Old Man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not even Stan is completely incorruptible. And yes, I know they've made lots of money off the unicorns and other supernatural creatures, but I think there's a part of Stan's subconscious that just wants to seize any opportunity to make more, you know?


	7. Alea iacta est

Seeing the look on Old Man Northwest’s face after stuffing the piece of paper into his mouth made the experience of sacrificing the money it would have given him totally worth it. Stan gave it another vindictive chew, wondering if he could make it into a good spitball like in high school.

_Funny how he doesn’t even seem surprised at the possibility of his family legacy bein’ a fraud as much as he is interested in tryna cover it up._

_...Unless he knew that was the truth all along._

_Well, he_ did _say that stuff about the town needing someone ta look up to..._

 _Geez, what a_ jerk _. He’s worse than the kid._

As he pushed the wad of paper into his cheek with his tongue, his eyes landed on Preston, still standing meekly behind his father. The boy was staring at them in bug-eyed disbelief, probably not used to people defying his Old Man this blatantly, if at all. Stan waggled his eyebrows at him; to his surprise, for a half second the kid looked like he was trying to smother a giggle, as if there was a real human soul in that suit.

Finally Old Man spoke, in tones of sharp, clipped rage.

“If you bring this story to the press, you will regret it.”

“Oh yeah? Why?” Ford challenged.

Old Man’s eyebrows did a little dance up and down his forehead. “I wonder if you’re aware, Stanford, of the amount of trouble your brother has gotten himself in with the law during the years before he came here.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Yes, I already know about that, we’ve been through this already-”

“But do the people around here know?”

Old Man Northwest’s air of superiority returned. “How safe do you think they would feel, knowing that that cabin in the woods not only harbors an eccentric mad scientist, but his hardened criminal of a brother? Someone who’s spent time in prison, and has several false identities on his record?”

Stan felt his gut clench and burn with anger-but also with a touch of fear.

Old Man went on, “Of course, it wasn’t for anything _serious_ , like _murder_ , but who knows what crimes he committed that he _wasn’t_ convicted of? Or what he might be up to right now?” He stepped closer, staring down his nose at them despite being barely an inch taller than the Pineses. “Like those large amounts of gold that you’ve been taking to the city and selling in different pawn shops every few weeks-where do those come from, I wonder?”

“It’s nothing illegal!” Ford interrupted.

 _Probably, anyway_ , Stan hoped. He wasn’t exactly up to date on whatever statutes there might be regarding sales rights with supernatural creatures.

“That’s what you _say_ , of course. But I wonder; I really do. And of course, in a small town like this, if they’ve been stirred up against one small person, or group of people-” he clicked his tongue. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

Stan stepped up to his brother’s side, readjusting his grip on the handle of the sword. Old Man’s eyes flicked towards him, looking for a moment like he feared he might actually use it. Stan just asked in a flat tone, “You really think people’d get as worked up about my petty crimes as they would about all the crap _your_ family’s pulled?”

Old Man shrugged. “Perhaps not...but the fact remains that if you attempt to bring destruction on my family, rest assured that I will do as much to you.”

Ford looked positively incensed that he would _dare_ to misquote Sir Arthur Conan Doyle at them. He was opening his mouth, probably to correct him on the parts he didn’t get right, when Old Man turned away and stalked towards his car.

“Come, Preston-we’re going home.”

The boy slinked after his father. As he got to the door, he hesitated for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something to them-but then he just climbed in.

* * *

For a minute, the little group silently watched the fancy car drive away.

At last Stan spat out the spitball and said, “Well, we uncovered the truth about a major conspiracy in Gravity Falls, but it’s gonna be difficult for us ta do anything with what we know. On the other hand, it means that if they try ta dig up the dirt on us we can expose them too. I think that’s what they call mutually assured destruction, right?”

“At least you didn’t take his Judas money,” Dan growled, as he resumed dragging Ghost Eyes and his buddy to the car. Trembley, finally paying attention to what was going on, sprang down from his perch on top of the tombstone and wandered over with interest to see what this strange “horseless carriage” was.

Stan’s shoulders sagged. “Sorry, Sixer. Looks like I messed things up again.”

Ford’s head whipped around towards him. “What-? No-this isn’t your fault, Stanley. You shouldn’t blame yourself. And even if we didn’t get the end results we expected, we still found some fascinating-artifacts!” His eyebrows raised in sudden realization. “We need to close up that entrance so they will be safe until we can bring them home! So go do that.”

Stan managed a smile, and a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”

“We’re not at sea, Stanley-you don’t say ‘aye aye’ when you’re on land.”

“Whatever.” And he headed back to that part of the cemetery.

Just in case, Stan went down and checked inside-thankfully the rooms still had all the stuff as far as he could tell, and there was no one else down here, so once he got outside he returned to the angel statue and pressed her finger down into place. The stone slab slid seamlessly (try saying that three times fast) back over the stairs.

“See ya later, gorgeous,” he told the statue, and then returned to the car.

* * *

Trembley spent the drive to the hospital marveling at their speed, and that their lungs weren’t collapsing from “going over thirty-five furlongs per jiffy.” Stan had long since given up trying to figure out what he was talking about.

At the hospital, Dan dumped out the hench-teenagers in front of the door, with a note attached to Ghost Eyes’s shirt reading, “Please make sure we don’t have concussions or anything like that. Thank you.” Despite his and Stan’s objections, Ford tucked a wad of cash to pay for the hospital bill into his pocket. Then they quickly drove away before anyone could see them.

When they arrived back at their home, Trembley hopped out. “Gentlemen, I am needed elsewhere-”

“...Where?” Stan asked, confused.

“-but I will return when America needs me most! Until then, remember that I am right here-” he put a hand to his heart...that turned out to actually be reaching into his coat pocket. “On the negative twelve dollar bill!” He handed it to Ford.

“Um...thank you. I suppose.” Ford looked at both sides with a critical eye.

“And for you, other Stan, I have this!” He handed Stan his President’s Key. Stan suddenly felt a little better about how this day had gone.

“What am I, chopped liver?” Dan grumbled.

“Oh, of course! You are now an official congressman, brave giant!” Trembley produced a folded top hat, which he popped open and placed on top of the lumberjack’s head (he had to stand on tiptoe, but he managed it). Then he raised his arms, and yelled, “Trembley away!”

Before they could blink, the former president leaped backwards, landing on a horse that they suddenly noticed standing by the side of the house. It reared briefly, and then galloped off into the forest (with Trembley still sitting backwards on it).

“Remarkable!” Ford said, staring after the retreating figures. “I think that was a genuine Coinci-Horse!” He pulled out his journal and flipped through it. “I know I wrote about them somewhere…”

Stan gave Dan a look. “How much do ya give his chances for survivin’ the twentieth century?”

“He seems pretty adaptable,” Dan mused. “On the other hand, I think he’s ridin’ right into Kill-Billy territory. So the odds’re maybe about fifty-fifty right now.”

“We’re going to have to make a closer examination of that peanut brittle!” Ford announced. “I need to find out where it came from-if it was created here in Gravity Falls, and perhaps that gave it its life-sustaining properties, or if he put something in it, or-”

Dan gave a resigned sigh. “I’ll get my truck-it’s got more room in the back.” He set off for his cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, Auldman is pretty good at playing dirty.  
> So now the Pineses have made a mortal enemy out of the most powerful family in Gravity Falls; and the Corduroys were already their mortal enemies, so Dan doesn't feel very affected, but things could always get worse for him somehow.  
> What a lovely way to end the day.
> 
> Of course, once they get all the stuff back to the house and stored safely in the basement, Ford starts considering possible actions they could take should the Northwests really try to use Stan's criminal history against them or find out where they're getting their gold from. He definitely doesn't want Auldman to find out about the creatures living in the forest-he can just imagine him trying to capture, exploit and/or destroy them to satisfy his own greed. During his classes about humanity he warns his students of the possible danger, and devises a plan for everyone to go into hiding should the worst occur. Dan, whose family does apocalypse training every year instead of Christmas, is all too happy to help with this.  
> On his tours, Stan takes the assortments of cryptids by the Northwest mansion so they can thumb their noses at it, and forces himself to resist the temptation to use his key so they could sneak in and loot the place. Even when he learns from Dan about how his ancestor was killed building it, after being banned from the celebratory party.  
> Instead, he looks into possible curses that they could place on the Northwest family. So far he hasn't found one that seems like fitting enough punishment.


End file.
